


Roses

by Inell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-02
Updated: 2009-01-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 07:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10782405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: The roses arrive at 3:15





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** **Requested By:** [](http://shiv5468.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://shiv5468.livejournal.com/)**shiv5468**

  
It’s the first time that Hermione’s ever seen a blue rose. In fact, she didn’t even know there _were_ blue roses until the vase was delivered. It’s just one rose, perfect and beautiful, and the shade of blue really appeals to her. There isn’t a card, so she doesn’t know who sent it. She isn’t involved with anyone who would be sending her flowers, and none of her male friends are likely to send any, either. It’s been a busy Monday, so the arrival of an anonymously sent rose is a nice change in routine, even if it’s made her curious.

When she leaves work that evening, she takes the vase with her. She doesn’t want to leave it at work overnight, in case the temperature in the Ministry doesn’t suit it. She feels awkward carrying a rose home, but it’s too late for anyone to see her by the time she takes the lift to the Atrium and uses the Floo to go home. She puts the vase on her small dining table before she makes dinner and curls up with research until bedtime.

Another rose is delivered on Tuesday. This one is a gorgeous shade of coral. It’s almost orange, which isn’t a color that she necessarily likes, but the shade of the rose is lovely. She’s just left a meeting that’s stressed her beyond belief, so finding the vase on her desk is a welcome distraction. Her secretary reports that it was delivered at fifteen after three without a card, just like yesterday.

After closing the door to her office, she sits down and rubs the back of her neck as she stares at the rose. One rose was curious enough, but two is perplexing. It isn’t just a random act of kindness or a mistake, as she convinced herself last night must be the explanation. It smells very nice, and she touches it gently before she shakes her head and tries to focus on her notes from the meeting.

That night, she adds the coral rose to the vase with the blue one when she gets home. She wants to know who sent them, but she’s working on a difficult case right now that keeps claiming her attention, so she decides to think about anonymous flowers later. For now, she has to figure out a way to resolve a complaint of prejudice that’s more involved than the department realized. That it’s a Pureblood complaining is startling, but that fact it involves Lucius Malfoy and is actually legitimate has made it even more of a priority to her superiors.

On Wednesday, she looks up from her paperwork at 3:15 to see her secretary carrying a vase with a burgundy rose. She looks closely to make sure that it’s not just red, but she can recognize the deep burgundy coloring. Her secretary coos and giggles before leaving, likely to run down the corridor and gossip with the other secretaries about anonymous roses delivered all week. It’s tempting to analyze it, but she has a meeting regarding the Malfoy case in fifteen minutes, so she has to finish gathering her information and get to the conference room in the basement.

The burgundy rose is a nice compliment to the vase on her table. She looks at the way the blue, coral, and burgundy manage be complimentary to each other and wonders how that’s possible. When she realizes that she’s spent too long staring, she makes dinner and indulges in a glass of wine to celebrate. She’s managed to find proof to support Malfoy’s claims, so her superiors should be happy with her tomorrow. Plus, she’ll no longer have to deal with Lucius Malfoy lurking around her department and dropping into her office for updates on the case at random times. She ignores the confliction emotions she’s feeling right now and opens a book.

The dark pink rose is delivered on Thursday. She smiles when she sees it, though the smile is partially due to the triumph of winning a case. She likes to win, especially when she manages to settle things before having to face the Wizengamot. She wants to eventually work her way up through the Department and knows that having a successful track record will do wonders in that respect. Eventually, when she wants to become Minister of Magic, she’ll be able to show a background of determination and accomplishment. Victory is always viewed more favorably than failure, after all.

She finishes her final notes on the Malfoy case and files it. It’s nice to have the case closed and off her desk. Before she gets focused on another case, she looks at the rose and frowns as she realizes that it’s the fourth in four days, and she’s no closer to having any idea who sent them. It’s possible that it’s a prank of some kind, but it doesn’t seem to be George’s style. Her hair hasn’t turned purple and she’s not broken out in spots, so that likely rules him out. She considers the possibilities for a few minutes before she forces herself to get back to work.

Friday is filled with meetings and interviews out of the office. When she finally gets back, she notices that there isn’t a vase on her desk. She looks at the clock and sees that it’s after four, which means she didn’t get a rose today. She’s oddly disappointed not to receive one, a fact that is confusing in itself. She sighs and goes to her desk, glad that it’s Friday because she obviously needs a little time off.

She organizes her files and gets a stack that need put away. After putting them in the drawer, she turns and notices a book leaning against the corner of her bookcase. She frowns and walks over to straighten it, knowing that it’ll bother her even if she’s not looking at the bookcase. The book isn’t hers, she realizes. It’s about flowers, of all bloody things, and she’s surprised to see her name written neatly on the front cover when she opens it. She’d certainly remember if she’d bought such a book, and she’s cross as she walks to her desk and sits down.

As she flips through the book, she finds a delicate bookmark resting between two pages discussing the language of flowers. She’s heard of it, of course, but it’s not anything she’s familiar with. She looks at the sections curiously and leans forward to pay more attention when she sees the section on roses. She finds blue-attaining the impossible, mystery. Well, that’s certainly true. She’s still uncertain who had sent her the roses. Coral was next, so she looks for that and blinks when she reads that it means desire and passion. For her? It’s obvious that whomever sent her the roses wasn’t aware of this language.

Still, she can’t help but look at burgundy. Beauty. She bites her lip and scans the words until she sees dark pink. Gratitude. It doesn’t make sense. She rolls her eyes at herself before she closes the book and puts it in her desk drawer. She sits there staring at an open file before she gets the book back out. She studies her name to see if there’s anything familiar about the handwriting. Unfortunately, there isn’t. It’s printed neatly, likely done in such a way that she’d not be able to recognize it anyway.

She shuts the book again and scowls at the clock when she sees that it’s after five. Bloody hell. This day has been impossible, and now she’s cranky about roses and no roses. She groans and runs her hand over her face. Maybe she’ll actually leave on time today. Go home and take a relaxing bath. She’s earned it after this week, after all. Maybe she’ll even indulge in bubbles.

A knock on her door pulls her out of thoughts of bubble baths and good books. “Yes?” she calls out, blinking in surprise when the door opens and Lucius Malfoy enters. He’s dressed impeccably, and she casts an envious glance at his hair, which is shiny and falls perfectly. “Is something wrong, Mr. Malfoy?”

He purses his lips and arches a brow before he removes a light pink rose from his robes. He holds it out towards her and smirks as she gapes in what she knows must be an unattractive manner. “Page ninety-five,” he says as he nods at the book lying on her desk.

“You? But—“ She stops talking before she says something she doesn’t plan. Page ninety-five? She opens the book but keeps watching him, suspicious but intrigued at the same time, which is a combination that could give her a headache. When she finds page ninety-five, she sees the bookmark and scans the roses until she sees light pink. She feels warmth in her cheeks as she shifts in her chair.

“What does it say, Miss Granger?” he asks.

She clears her throats and sneaks a look up at him before she glances back at the book. “Passion, desire, joy of life.”

“Will you do me the honor of dining with me?”

“Dinner? With me?” She frowns as she studies him. “You don’t like me, Mr. Malfoy, and I’m not entirely sure that I like you.”

“You intrigue me,” he says simply. “I would like to know you better. And, Miss Granger, you’re wrong. I _do_ like you. Do stop looking at me like that. It’s just dinner, not a sacrificial ritual.”

“Just dinner,” she repeats slowly. Annoyingly, he’s managed to fascinate her, and she’s curious to see what he has planned. Perhaps it’s legitimate, but there’s also a possibility that he’s scheming something. Why does it excite her to think he’s plotting? Her life really isn’t _that_ boring, is it?

“Just dinner.” He tilts his head and studies her. “You do have to eat, Hermione. We’ll merely share a meal and see what happens.”

He’s right. She does have to eat. “Fine. But just dinner.”

At her acceptance, he removes another rose from his robe and hands her a pretty white bud. “For reverence and humility,” he informs her in a tone that sounds far from humble. When she stands up and takes his hand, he smiles smugly. “Dinner is a good start.”

“A good start for what?” she asks suspiciously before she can stop herself.

He laughs, the first time she’s ever heard him do so, then smiles down at her. “We’ll see.”

End


End file.
